


Through Glass

by artemisgrace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Deception, F/F, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Internal Conflict, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Murder Husbands, Nightmares, Past Character Death, Shellshock, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, War, aftermath of war, also inspired by WWI poetry, graphic description of dying, inspired by a Miss Fisher episode oddly enough, post-WWI AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2020-03-29 17:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19024873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemisgrace/pseuds/artemisgrace
Summary: Will Graham meets Doctor Hannibal Lecter on an express train while heading to visit an old friend from the war, but all plans are derailed when a murder occurs, and Jack Crawford recruits the both of them to help find the culprit.Our story follows Will and Hannibal from the time of their unlikely meeting, the audience playing silent witness to deception, murder, and a descent into either madness or brilliance, depending on one's point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be my first genuinely long Hannibal fic, so I do hope you all enjoy it.  
> Please do remember to read the tags, to avoid any unnecessary upset. Look after yourselves, friends.

Steam billows, damp clouds rolling down upon the platform as do waves upon a shore, and a piercing shriek of metal on metal rings through the mist as the train begins to move, pulling away and gathering speed with a rhythmic sound of turning wheels.

Will Graham allows his head to loll to the side to rest against the glass of the window to his compartment, head heavy with exhaustion from the early morning trip he’d taken to the station to catch the Ballarat express. It’s an overnight journey, and while Will doesn’t imagine that the rumbling of wheels on the rails will do the quality of his sleep any favors tonight, he must admit to the beauty, such as it is, to the landscape that is revealed as the station fades into distance, civilization and all its trials fading with it. The dirt and smokey grime of the city is soon replaced by the cleaner dirt of the countryside, a largely flat expanse of vast plains with the occasional copse of sparsely-leafed trees dotting the scenery, filling the horizon for as far as Will can see from his window, and all of it lit with the pale, warm glow of an early morning sun.

He’s grateful for the seeming emptiness, a release from the overabundance of people and things in Melbourne, and a merciful calm before the grating pleasantries that await him at the other end of his journey. 

He’s been putting off seeing Jeremy ever since their boat had arrived in Australia, dumping them on its shore like so much maritime debris. Jeremy had family here, to whom he could return once the fighting was done and his country was done with him. Will, however, well, he hadn’t had much more than a canvas sack of necessities and a complete disinterest in returning home, following Jeremy’s childhood memories of Australia as a beacon of hope for a new life, once Europe and the U.S. had been spoiled for him. It wasn’t special, it was simply new, and newness is what Will had thought he needed at the time. He couldn’t say now whether his decision had been for good or ill, but at any rate, the time for taking it back has long since passed, and he’s learned to be content with discontent. 

Jeremy always was … difficult. Not in a particularly malicious way, but he’d been the sort to engage in thoughtless antagonizing, saying or doing precisely the wrong thing in a manner that becomes amusing only once removed from the situation, in the telling later, over a pint or three. Ultimately not Will’s ideal first choice for companionship, but circumstance and Will’s own inherent oddness saw to it that they be flung together repeatedly until they eventually stuck. Yes, a sticky sort of friendship, that’s what they had. Still have, if only in the writing of the occasional letter on Christmas and birthdays, obligated by a sense of perhaps misplaced duty. 

After all, while who had been taking care of whom could be quite easily disputed, being together was easier than being alone in a foreign land, bogged down in mud, and Will remains grateful for that.

Jeremy had first asked for him to visit a year ago, and Will’s refusal had had a perfectly reasonable explanation: he’d been ill at the time, feverish and altogether not fit for a long train trip. That postponed visit had been entirely reasonable, but as the months wore on, his excuses had grown flimsier, and that fact hadn’t escaped Jeremy, nor had the man neglected to say so when he at last telephoned the boarding house to demand Will’s presence. At that point it was either burn the bridge, or bite the bullet and get it over with.

Thus his early trip to the station and the overnight express voyage. 

Tall grass blurs past with the motion of the train and the gentle swaying of the compartment, and the movement soothes Will, lulling him into a state somewhere between sleeping and waking, that twilight space that belongs to restless, wandering thoughts and almost-remembered things now lost. It is there that Will hovers, in a moment of detached peace, until that is the door of the compartment slides abruptly open, revealing a railway employee and a tall gentleman with sharp features and even sharper dress. 

“Excuse me, sir,” the railroad man says as he raps gently on the frame of the already open door, as if that somehow makes it any less jarring after the fact, “I hope you won’t object to this gentleman sharing your compartment for the remainder of the voyage. I’m afraid there was a clerical mistake and the train was overbooked.”

“Oh, uh, of course not,” Will agrees, as if he could really refuse, shaking himself from his near-sleep and then turning to the gentleman in question, “You’re welcome to it, sir.”

“Thank you,” the man gracefully acknowledges him, before turning his head to do so to the railroad employee as well, though a certain twitch to his eye upon thanking the latter suggests that he’s not entirely forgiven the mistake.

His voice suits him, soft in sound but firm in tone, hard like the sharp planes of his face, the high cheekbones, prominent brow, and regal raised angle of his chin all contributing to a very striking individual. He stands in the doorway, surveying the compartment like a king surveying his feudal kingdom, and Will finds this simultaneously oddly interesting and deeply irritating. It’s curiously not unlike the feelings prompted by Jeremy, despite the fact that the two men could hardly be more different, at least upon first impression. Jeremy’s an entertaining fool, but Will would bet on all his meager possessions that this elegantly dressed gentleman is nothing of the sort. 

This estimation would seem to hold true as the man enters the compartment smoothly, placing his suitcase in its appropriate place on the rack above his seat, all to the tune of the railroad man rapidly apologizing, as if in fear of the consequences should he not. Will can’t really blame him on that one.

“I sincerely apologize, sir,” the man says, ducking his head as if in semblance of a bow, and again the visual of a feudal king, and now a bowing vassal, comes instantly to mind as the apology continues, “You will of course be refunded the difference in cost between this compartment and the one you reserved, and the company will be happy to compensate you for the trouble.”

“Very kind,” the gentleman graciously accepts, thought Will gets the feeling that he sees it less as kind, and more as the least the railway could do; but that is not this fidgeting man’s fault, and what anger there is is likely toward the establishment than to the poor, nervous employee.

He also gets the sense, however, that this current benevolence will wane the longer the man keeps talking … 

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Will supplies, though it may not be his place, feeling obligated to take pity on the railroad employee and to free him from this current apologetic purgatory.

To his credit, the railroad man, despite clearly wanting to escape as quickly as possible, hesitates, glancing to Will and then to the gentleman still standing, seeking reassurance that such an escape would be acceptable.

“Yes, I’m sure we will,” the gentleman adds, and the rail employee’s shoulders visibly relax.

“Very well, sirs,” he replies, already slinking subtly away from the door, “I’ll leave you to it, and if there’s anything you need, you can find me in the dining car, and I’ll be more than pleased to help.”

It’s a lie, but a polite one, and the gentleman seems to appreciate it as much as will does, nodding approvingly before the railroad man finally takes his leave, closing the compartment door behind him and rapidly fleeing, from the sound of rapid footsteps departing down the hallway outside. He leaves in his wake a silence much deeper and much more tense than that Will had been comfortably mired in before the affair had begun.

He does his best to settle back into place as though the disturbance had not happened at all, but his jittering mind cannot help but dwell against his will on the gentleman that still as he removes his hat to leave it on the rack along with his luggage and sits elegantly, settling into his seat as though in his own parlour, despite the fact that the seat couldn’t possibly be as comfortable as an armchair in one’s own home. But perhaps that is simply the stranger’s nature: to adapt seamlessly, giving no voice to discomfort.

Will shifts in his own seat to let his head once again rest against the glass of the window, feeling the movement of the train in the vibrations in the pane and gazing out the window to again observe the countryside. The gentleman too settles in, although he remains seated upright with excellent posture in a way that Will just can’t summon the enthusiasm to do, and as they both settle down, the tiredness of earlier returns to Will, drawing him into a restless slumber as the morning carries on and the sun rises higher, casting shorter shadows with the approach of midday.

It’s peaceful at first, but much in the way that Will has learned to expect, the peace is fleeting, the rumble of the train and the vibration of the window pane growing and morphing into something more sinister, building until the sound is the fall of shells into the trench, and the movement is the shaking of the soft ground beneath weary feet with each explosion.

It’s so hard to move, the mud almost knee deep, and no boot can keep it out, the sticky cold seeping into the skin, numbing and chilling to the bone, but what was mud and what was blood wasn’t so easy to distinguish as his younger self might have thought it to be, and he shivers in either cold or terror. Those have gotten harder to distinguish as well. 

He trudges alongside the others, past praying that the next shell avoids him, or that the next bullet misses, for he’s come to learn intimately that such prayers do little to stop that which is keen to happen. Shrapnel shreds and bullets shatter with little regard for hope or prayer, and Will’s head throbs with the sound of both tearing through the flesh of men he’s met, and perhaps with the remnants of fever, the fire growing with each night spent in the mud. In the dark. There’s so much smoke here that it’s never sunny, and though he saw blue sky only a few months ago, it still feels like a lie, or a story told to him as a child.

It takes him a moment to notice the shouting, only really realizing what’s happening when Jeremy shouts in his ear, so as to be heard over the bombs and the cries of others less fortunate.

“Gas!” he fairly screams, urgent, frightened eyes wide behind glass, and Will’s hands scrabble for his mask, slipping it on before the roiling, noxious cloud can reach him, saving his own life.

But the screaming isn’t done, it’s just not coming from Jeremy now, the sound coming from behind them, someone at the back of the pack shrieking in an ungodly terror, in agony, and no matter how many times Will’s heard such a sound, it never ceases to clench a fist tight in his chest, a sour ache filling the heart of him and squeezing the air from his lungs.

He turns to look at the sound while Jeremy pushes on, knowing it will feel like death, but unable to resist the pull of the piper’s hideous music, shrieks for vocals and booming for percussion. What does it say about him that he doesn’t turn away? That he stops to look? 

He can’t help. He … He can’t do a thing. Nothing but watch the end of someone’s world.

The man behind gurgles, mouth frothing with blood, contorting and floundering like a man set alight, the gas burning him from the inside out, turning his lungs to little but bloody meat. There’s no breathing with that, so he suffocates, drowning in the air, and Will watches through green-tinted glass, the mud like deep water and the scene more like a sailor’s demise than a soldier’s. The pain is real, but it isn’t his own, that is until the man stumbles, lunging towards Will with desperate clawing hands, tearing at air as though it could allow him to swim, to break the surface, but it doesn’t, and Will sees the sheer, earth-shattering panic of it as their eyes meet: those behind glass and those unveiled but unseeing, orbs burning much as his lungs are. 

It’s then that the pain is Will’s own, and he understands at once the unnamable, indescribable fear, a pain beyond comprehension, something that surpasses words and defies all description. Words have power, but this is a power of a different kind, one that predates the written word, predates language, but has accompanied the agony of all who’ve died the wrong way, at the wrong time. He’s melting from the inside, and no man was ever meant to do that. But the gas was made by men and dropped by men to be breathed by men, and it strikes Will to the core, the thought that no devil has ever been so evil as man.

Glory doesn’t look like this, at least, it shouldn’t, but it’s the word that they will use later in dispatches to describe the death. Glorious. But the blood coughed from shredded lungs onto the front of Will’s uniform isn’t glorious, the froth of crimson that spills from lips desperately moving to form some sad, broken sound isn’t noble. It’s the death of innocence. It’s the end of the world.

What falls to Will’s feet isn’t a man. It used to be, but it isn’t now; now it’s flesh that will lose all its heat to the chill mud, much as it lost to the gas the spirit it once contained, a ghost now dissipated. 

It’s horrifying in a way that Will’s never before seen nor thought, but it’s when the dead man’s chest begins to move again that Will knows, truly knows, that something is wrong. There’s something inside the cage of the man’s ribs, rattling about, bidding for escape, and Will can see the points where the pressure is concentrated, bowing out the chest cavity like something’s about to burst through. For the first time since the screaming began, Will finds the will to turn away, to run, panicked, and he almost manages it before a clawing, dead hand grasps his shoulder, wrenching him back with an inhuman strength, pulling at him …

But then he wakes, no longer knee-deep in mud, but propped up against the window of a train compartment, and the hand upon his shoulder belongs not to the moving corpse of a soldier, but to the stranger who’d been sitting across from him, gently shaking him to wakefulness.

“You’re alright,” the gentleman soothes him, “Take a moment to collect yourself. Try to breathe deeply and evenly.”

The words are soft, calm, but insistent, and Will obeys automatically, watching the man before him and breathing as he breathes, in and out in a slow rhythm so different from the rapid, panicked breaths that had rattled in his chest as he woke. It’s odd, or perhaps fully reasonable, but the gentleman’s presence is a balm despite, or because of, his imposing nature. But then, Will supposes, there is a stability to be found when in the presence of a will like stone, so long as that will is not turned against you.

“That’s better,” the gentleman approves the slowing of Will’s breath, his grip firm and warm on Will’s shoulder, far from the cold grip of a lifeless hand, “Can you sit up?”

Will straightens in his seat, feeling more than slightly dizzy, but the hand on his shoulder steadies him when he falters, a reassuring line connecting him to reality.

“Can you speak?” the gentleman asks then, and Will tries once or twice before his effort succeeds, as though the terror of his dream still grips his throat a moment or two before loosening.

“Y- Yes, I can,” Will answers him, more refined language still eluding him for now, “Thank you for, well, this.”

“No thanks are necessary,” the man replies, humble but not dismissive as he sits back, letting the hand fall from Will’s shoulder, “I took an oath to help and heal when I can, and there is no exception for train travel.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor,” Will realizes, recognizing at last the actions of a medical man.

“I am, Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” the doctor answers, hesitating a moment before continuing, “The medical literature on shell-shock, I find, is woefully lacking considering how common an affliction it is in this day and age.”

“Is that what I have, Doctor Lecter?” Will asks, himself unsure whether it’s a challenge or a bid for confirmation.

“Has no doctor said such to you before?”

“Oh they did,” Will frowns unthinkingly at the memory, “They also told me that it would go away before long.”

“I suppose that is true for some, but it has long been the nature of war to cast long shadows over the lives of those who experience it most intimately,” Dr. Lecter muses, “but what is your name, Mr-?”

“Graham. Will Graham.”

“Well, then I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Graham,” Dr. Lecter extends his hand again, this time for a handshake to accompany a proper introduction.

“Likewise,” Will agrees, reaching his own hand out to shake the doctor’s, but truth be told, he’s not entirely sure whether it is in fact a mutual delight.

The truth to the statement remains yet to be seen, for although Will is genuinely grateful for the doctor’s help in rousing him from his nightmare, he’s never been terribly keen on people making assumptions about him, regardless of the intentions behind the efforts to define that which we call Will Graham. Whether Dr. Lecter will prove to be truly any different than those he’s known before, Will will simply have to wait and see …


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal get to know each other a little better, just in time for the train to screech to a halt with a pull of the emergency cord. it seems that there's been a disappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was already mostly written, so I thought I'd just finish it up and post another chapter, even though it's only been a day or so.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Will begins after a moment or two of silence spent sizing each other up, “but where do you hail from? I don’t recognize your accent.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Lecter answers, but Will suspects that the reception wouldn’t be quite so warm were Will not also a foreigner himself, “Lithuania is my home country, though I must admit to not having visited in some years.”

“Ah, there you go then,” Will nods, “I went straight from the States to France, and from France to here, so I can’t claim to have known many Lithuanians. There were men on the front from all over, but I didn’t know any of them at all well.”

“France,” the doctor sighs, and for a moment the man looks transported, as if drifted into a cloud of memory, breathing in to inhale the past, “I spent many of the best years of my youth in that country.”

“You did?”

“I attended medical school in Paris, and such a beautiful city it was then. The works of many centuries engraved deeply into stone, the great and ancient all commonplace enough to hardly be remarked. It’s one of the things I miss most since I came here. For those of the Old World, Australia seems such a young country,” He looks out over the rapidly passing grass and trees, almost wistful, “The churches here are not the Gothic cathedrals I remember, and their stones haven’t been worn glass-smooth by the steps of centuries of passing feet.”

Will can see it: Paris at the birth of a new century. A grey sky cut with rays of light from the eclipsed sun, their warm glow cascading like rivulets of liquid gold down Gothic walls of stone, flowing to reflect upon the swift-flowing waters of the Seine. It’s imbued with life, with memory, and that gives it a particular power, something almost spiritual, for this is the land of older gods as well as the Catholic one. The past is alive in this city built upon previous cities, generations built upon those who came before, Gothic cathedrals built upon the accomplishments of the Gallo-Romans. 

The Great War wasn’t the first to bloody this soil, and that remains too, in broken bones and musket-ball holes in the skulls that decorate the city of the dead beneath the pedestrian’s feet. Millions of people’s memories entombed together … Not something you find just anywhere, and Will can only regret that he didn’t have the chance to see it in peacetime.

“I find Australia not too far off from home, myself,” Will muses, following Dr. Lecter’s gaze, “At least in that respect, but I do miss the tall spires and cobblestones … Not because they were familiar to me, but because they weren’t.”

“Fond of new sights?” Dr. Lecter looks back to him, an eyebrow raised in an expression of curiosity.

“Perhaps more like compelled to seek them.”

“Is that why you chose to come here then?”

“Maybe. I certainly thought so at the time,” Will considers, looking back upon the person he’d been three years ago, “But now I rather suspect that I simply wanted to get as far away from home as possible.”

“With that, I can sympathize,” Dr. Lecter smiles softly, “There is a freedom to be found in the land where your memories do not live. No ghosts here to hold you back.”

“Is that where your ghosts live,” Will asks, though even as he says it he feels himself upon a ledge, and wishes it could be taken back, “Lithuania?”

“Many of them,” the smile remains, but there is a set to it, a tightness, that tells of things meant to be left unsaid, of a wound that was never intended to be truly healed, “Though I must confess that many others remain in France, either in the hospital or out in the fields of the front.”

“You worked in a field hospital?” It’s not exactly a harmless topic, but it feels less tenuous than the previous one as it leaves Will’s lips.

“Yes. As a surgeon specializing in traumatic injury, I was badly needed. I could have remained in Paris, to be honest, as the city was under bombardment and there were plenty who needed stitching up there, but I must admit a strange attraction to the front, some sort of terrible curiosity acting in combination with a sense of duty.”

“I think I understand,” Will nods slowly.

“I’d been mired in death for the vast majority of my life, such is the profession. Perhaps it was easier to behave as though the war and all the death it brought with it never really struck home when death has never been that far away. On a larger scale, certainly, but not outside of the familiar."

“When faced with an extreme for a certain amount of time, it starts to feel normal, and then we seek out a greater extreme …“ Will muses, though a certain word choice on the doctor’s part strikes him.

He said he’s been mired in death for “the vast majority of his life.” Not his adult life, but his life as a whole, and while that could merely be an instance of a word dropped by coincidence, Will has the suspicion that Dr. Lecter’s first brush with the reaper had taken place long before Paris.

“An unfortunate instinct carried within humankind, the desire for more, of both good and bad. We are creatures of the extremes by nature.”

“I have to agree with you there. Everyone seems to know that the middle road is the most sensible one, and yet so few seem to walk it …” 

“And on both the high road and the low, we leave a trail of ghosts,” Dr. Lecter smiles, a small flash of teeth, “Did you leave some in France?”

“I rather suspect so,” Will confesses, comforted somewhat by the understanding he and the doctor seem to be developing, “More than back home, probably. I don’t expect I’ll go back there, not for quite a long time.”

“Nor I,” the doctor agrees, an edge of sadness in his voice, “Europe will have to wait a while. Or perhaps I will.”

“And while you’re waiting?” Will asks, “Do you have a practice here?”

“I established myself in Melbourne,” the doctor says before clarifying, “But I gave up surgery, transferring my passion for anatomy into a love of cooking, and I took up studying the mind as my new vocation.”

“A nerve specialist?”

“A euphemism, but yes. And yourself?” Dr. Lecter inquires, “With what do you occupy your days under the sun of the southern hemisphere?”

“Ah, well,” Will blushes despite himself, “I must confess to being between ventures at the moment. It’s been … difficult, to readjust. Things slip through my fingers. It’s hard to do factory work when the machinery sounds like heavy shelling.”

“Perfectly understandable,” Dr. Lecter nods, matter-of-fact and not the least bit condescending.

“Thanks for saying so,” Will says, noting internally that the doctor is growing on him.

Such a train of thought, however, is interrupted as the actual train within which they’ve been rocketing down the track to Ballarat slows suddenly with a shrieking of brakes, metal striking sparks on metal with the great friction of it. The abrupt lack of motion takes both men by surprise, and Will is sent bowling forward towards Dr. Lecter, too startled to stay on his feet and prevented from a painful collision only by the man’s hands, which strike out with a snake-like quickness, grabbing hold of Will’s waist with deceptively strong arms and holding him steady until the train beneath them comes to a full stop.

“Are you alright, Mr. Graham?”

“I believe so, thank you,” Will pants out as the doctor slowly releases his grip, before exclaiming, “What the hell could that have been?”

“It seems that someone has pulled the emergency brake,” Dr. Lecter remarks, looking more interested than distressed, himself standing, slipping past Will to peek out into the aisle outside the compartments.

Will joins him, but all that there is to be seen on first glance is a multitude of other heads sticking out of their respective compartments, all glancing about in confusion and shock, talking rapidly in hushed voices to speculate on the recent upset. Will’s often troublesome, but undeniable, curiosity prompts him to turn to his new friendly acquaintance.

“Dr. Lecter, this may be forward of me, considering how recently we’ve met,” Will says, “But would you care to join me in some snooping?”

“I’d be happy to,” the doctor responds, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, voice light and polite, as though they were discussing a brief walk through a garden.

Will steps out into the hall, listening to determine from which direction the most noise was coming before beginning to walk that way, Dr. Lecter close on his heels, the two of them drawing curious looks from the other passengers, but none offering any objection or question. That’s just something about the doctor, it seems: as much as Will had first thought the man to be proud and imposing, others seemed to find him even more so, moving out of their way as if accepting Dr. Lecter, entirely naturally, as a figure of authority. Will’s hardly going to argue, as the man’s presence seems to cleave through milling passengers as a hot knife through butter, leaving their path unobstructed.

It’s then that they hear it, someone shouting, a young woman, from the sound of it.

“He’s gone!” she cries out, “but where could he have gone?”

“Please calm down, madam,” a voice that they recognize as the railroad employee from before pleads, “If you calm down, I can send someone to contact the authorities, and we can mount a search. Is that agreeable?”

At the far end of the car, the scene unfolds, a harried-looking young man in railroad company uniform struggling to calm a young woman, smartly dressed in a well-cut skirt suit, with large, bright eyes, and a delicately arched brow, all culminating in someone very lovely, but quite stern-looking. Will can understand the deep, almost panicked unease of the young man; Will would hate to be on her bad side too.

“Can’t we search first?” The young woman shouts, “He could be hurt somewhere on the train, needing help!”

“Miss Verger?” Will hear Dr. Lecter ask, a note of surprise in his voice, and the young woman’s head snaps in their direction, a relieved recognition breaking out on her face.

“Dr. Lecter!” she exclaims, “You must help, my brother has gone missing! I was reading in our compartment when something hit my head, and I woke up to find him just vanished!”

There’s something that feels almost performative about her concern, but Will shakes off the thought, thinking himself uncharitable. After all, everyone reacts differently to stressful situations, and who is Will to judge?

“Of course,” the doctor replies before turning to the railroad man, and instructing in a tone that allows no room for argument, “Contact Detective Inspector Jack Crawford at the City South station. Tell him that there’s been a suspicious disappearance and that Dr. Hannibal Lecter has specifically requested his help. I will look after the young lady until he arrives.”

There’s something familiar about the name Crawford, but Will’s ashamed to admit that he can’t quite recall the face that goes with such a name, or indeed the context.

“Uh, yes, yessir,” the man agrees, turning to stride quickly away, presumably to find help, but also likely to escape the combined forces of Dr. Lecter and this Miss Verger.

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter,” Miss Verger says, before her attention is directed to Will, where he stands just off to the side, “And who is this?”

“Ah,” the doctor gestures Will forward for introductions, “Margot, this is my associate, Mr. Will Graham.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Verger,” Will ducks his head in a motion of respect, as indoors he hasn’t a hat to tip in greeting.

“Pleasure. And please call me Margot,” the young lady smiles to him, though not particularly warmly, “A friend of Dr. Lecter’s is a friend of mine.”

“I appreciate it, Miss. And of course you may call me Will,” he answers, a vein of amusement going through him at the realization that he’s gotten to being on first name terms with this young woman who he’s known for but a moment faster than he has with the man who’s earned him her trust.

“Now, Margot,” Dr. Lecter addresses her with the stern voice of a medical man, “I understand how distressed you must be, but you must allow me to examine your head for injury. Perhaps we might return to your compartment?”

“Oh, of course, it’s this way,” she responds, leading them to a nearby compartment, which appears largely undisturbed, apart from a book, presumably the one Margot had been reading, which lies open upon the floor, pages fluttering with a slight breeze as she reenters the space.

Will feels a gentle tug on his sleeve and finds Dr. Lecter, looking to him like he’s got something to say.

“I think it would be best you call me Hannibal,” the man tells him, “considering that you are now my … associate.”

“And you’d best call me Will,” Will responds, “As I expect ‘meet this stranger I just met’ wouldn’t be terribly reassuring.”

“Indeed not … Will,” Dr. Lecter - Hannibal- agrees with a small, private smile.

“Are you coming?” Margot peeks out around the door frame, in response to which they both nod, following her in.

“Sit down, please, Margot,” Hannibal requests, and she doesn’t hesitate to do so, giving him room to sit across from her and bowing her head so that he might inspect the injury, “I daresay you’ll have a painful bruise. Any nausea? Dizziness? Visual disturbance?”

She shakes her head no with each of his questions and he sighs, sounding pleased.

“I don’t suspect that you have a concussion, but do keep an eye on it, and let me know immediately if anything changes or you feel at all unwell,” he orders her, “Do you understand?”

“Of course,” she answers, and Will senses an undercurrent to the phrase, as though there’s another meaning that he can’t quite discern before she speaks again, “Might I have a glass of water?”

“Would you go retrieve a glass of water from the dining car, Will?” Hannibal asks, looking to Will over his shoulder, “I’d like to stay with Margot until the authorities arrive.”

“Oh, certainly,” Will turns to leave the compartment, “I’ll be right back.”

A moment or two passes while Margot and Hannibal listen for Will’s retreating steps, and then the young lady speaks, voice low, tone dark.

“Will my brother be coming back?”

Hannibal looks at her, face blank as a canvas, with nothing to give away.

“No, I don’t imagine he will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all guess what's happened to her dear brother ...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Jack Crawford arrives on the scene, where it is revealed that Will shares a history with the man, an unpleasant and largely confidential one. Left to his own devices while Jack questions Margot and Hannibal sits in, Will explores the train . . . where he sees one of his ghosts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been gone an absolute age, but to be fair, I did graduate from college in the meantime, so that's fun ...  
> Warning in this chapter for graphic depictions of violence and gore.

It’s a couple hours of sitting and deliberately light, harmless conversation later that the police finally do arrive, with no less fanfare than one might have suspected. A great galumphing of heavy boots ideal for long patrols on cobblestone announces their arrival, as does a booming voice, with the sort of loud confidence only carried by the veteran superior officer. Detective Inspector Jack Crawford, no doubt, whose name had rung a bell with Will, a tolling that only grows clearer when he hears the man speak.

“Can someone direct me to Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” the man asks from down the hall, somewhere in the region of the baggage compartment next to the carriage entrance, in response to which the doctor in question rises from his seat next to Margot and steps out of the compartment.

“Jack!” he greets the newcomer, “Thank you so much for coming, I’m afraid something awful may have happened.”

“May have?” asks the voice as the inspector approaches, though still out of Will’s and Margot’s sight, the both of them craning their necks in an attempt to see around the doorframe to no avail.

“Well, you see, we haven’t actually found him yet, so we’ve no idea how dire the situation really is,” Hannibal explains with a furrowed, serious brow, “He’s just gone missing. His sister is through here, if you’d like to talk to her.”

He turns and looks back through the doorway to address the still-seated Margot.

“Do you feel up to speaking with the inspector, my dear?”

“Yes, yes of course” Margot agrees, as she does so adopting an expression rather more shaken, more frantic than the one she’d been sporting for the last hour or two. 

Nervous, perhaps, at being interviewed by a detective? Possibly, but not because she’s the nervous sort; she doesn’t strike Will as the type to be easily shocked or frightened, indeed, he rather suspects fear has been a constant companion of hers, to the point that its influence is dulled. If she looks nervous, it’s because she knows that she ought to, that it’s what’s expected of her . . . She’s not guilty though, he doesn’t think so. Just traumatized, and Will knows a bit about what that looks like.

There are many paths that pain of that kind can set a person on. They can grow cold and distant, immunized against the fear of what torments them, or they can become so tangled in it that it rules them. They can be tortured . . . among other things.  
Will doesn’t like to think of himself as among those of the latter group, but he’s not naive enough to entirely discount it. The hazards of an introspective personality, he supposes.

But Margot doesn’t need to know that he’s seen beneath her skin, it would only do her harm, so he mentions nothing of it, playing his role as the gentleman while she plays her role as worried lady and devoted sister, rising from his seat and offering her his hand to aid her in standing.

“Margot?” he prompts, and in response she gives him one of her subdued smiles, taking his hand, rising, and then taking his elbow as offered.

Together they step out into the hall where Detective Inspector Jack Crawford and Hannibal are making what passes for small talk between a police detective and a nerve specialist, catching up, Will supposes, as they seem like old friends, or at least long-established friendly acquaintances. 

“Ah, Jack, this is Miss Verger, the young lady whose brother has gone missing,” Hannibal introduces her, having spotted the two of them exiting the compartment, “And my associate-”

“Will Graham!” Jack exclaims before Hannibal can finish the introductions, the outburst startling everyone in the near vicinity and drawing their eyes to watch as Inspector Crawford strides forward to deliver a firm and enthusiastic handshake of greeting, “It’s been an age since I’ve seen you! I had no idea you were in this part of the world.”

Upon seeing the man’s face, it all comes rushing back.

Wars are terrible, everyone knows that. By their very definition, wars mean conflict, they mean death, injury, starvation, poverty, wrath and ruin. Everyone knows that. But there’s more to it than that, all those tragedies, all those travesties, because there are some who don’t merely withstand the suffering: there are some who thrive in its midst. There are those who find, there in that chaos, the opportunity to do the vilest ills humanity has come up with, purely for personal satisfaction.

It’s much harder, after all, to catch a mass murderer when state-approved mass killing is taking place all around.

Someone still has to try though, and during that time of mud, blood, and ash, Jack Crawford had been that someone. Will, well, Will had been . . . a valuable resource. He’d been helpful, but he’d also been the object of fright and suspicion among his fellows, for no one likes a man who sees and perceives that much. Everyone has their secrets, and all secret-keepers fear revelation.

It had been no one of consequence, no one of substance, just a man, and one of no more than average intelligence, as is the case more often than novels, cinema, and the rag papers would suggest it to be. Men like this make for poor stories and thus poor sales, but the absence of talk, of gossip and public shock, doesn’t make the horrors go away, not really. They may fade into the background of history, naught but dark tales told by schoolchildren to frighten each other, embellished almost past the point of recognition, but for those who knew, who really knew the events as fact, as a part of their own personal history . . . For them, such events would never fade, and otherwise unremarkable men would leave an indelible stain.

Perhaps that was the cruelest part of all, that the man who so stained the otherwise largely happy lives of so many, was no mastermind, no genius, merely an artless opportunist. He was not well-hidden by his own cleverness or ingenuity, but simply by the sheer chaos that happened to surround him and all those he hurt. 

That was the cruelest thing. That the man was not merely evil . . . but in a way that could not even be admired from that particular amoral, unfeeling point of view. Artless, boorish, entirely ignorant of aesthetics . . . What a thing to have your life torn apart by a monstrosity so unimpressive, so asinine . . .

And what a thing to have to look through the eyes of such a beast in order to discover him? It leaves a bad taste in Will’s mouth even now, and he swallows down the bile of it in order to answer Jack Crawford in an adequate manner.

“Detective Crawford,” he greets the man, now an active participant in the handshake rather than a passive one, “It has been a long time.”

“Only years and years!” Detective Crawford exclaims, releasing Will’s hand to pat him heartily on the shoulder, “Oh, and do call me Jack, I dare say we know each other well enough for first names at least.”

“Of course,” Will agrees, though he’s not entirely sure that the man’s estimation of the closeness of their relationship is entirely accurate, “Jack.”

“Whatever are you doing in these parts?” Jack inquires before looking back at Hannibal, “You say Will here is your associate?”

“A very recently forged alliance,” Hannibal replies, nodding, not technically lying, in the strictest sense.

“Ah,” Jack nods, as though that actually explained anything, a wondering smile coming to his face as he continues, “What an exceptional coincidence! That we three should meet like this, well, I would think the odds of it close to none, but here we are . . . And with these pleasantries exchanged, I’m afraid we have a serious matter to be attending to. I hope you will both assist?” 

“Assist?” Will inquires, an uncomfortable, yet familiar sort of itching sensation crawling about in his chest.

He’d expected to make himself helpful, but he’d expected to be making himself helpful to Hannibal and to Margot; he hadn’t expected to find himself working with Jack Crawford . . . It’s not that he has any real objections to the man or to the concept of assisting in a potentially upsetting case, no, it’s not that, it’s just . . . the last time that he and Jack worked together had been a deeply trying time, to put it very, very lightly, and Will can’t help but feel a sort of apprehension, a fear that history might repeat itself . . .

“I would appreciate the assistance, seeing as you have some familiarity with those involved, as well as a relevant professional background,” Jack elaborates, a look of expectation upon his face, but one that gives the distinct impression that he is already fully confident that Will and Hannibal will do what he expects of them.

It’s dreadful, because he’s absolutely right, a fact which becomes apparent as Hannibal makes his reply.

“Of course, we’d be happy to,” Hannibal inclines his head elegantly, prompting Jack to pat him on the shoulder as well.

“I appreciate it,” he thanks the two of them, and Will is certain that the idea that they might object had never for a moment crossed his mind - not in a mean way, of course, simply in the well-meaning but unthinking manner of a man long used to being in charge of all situations he finds himself in.

This concept, of course, this unflinching surety in oneself, is fundamentally unfamiliar to Will, but he understands it as it appears through the eyes of Jack Crawford. For the detective, the assumption is a natural one, and despite his misgivings, Will knows that it is easier to bend to the man’s will than it is to defy it, and the situation is exhausting enough without going to the effort of swimming against the current.

All this being the case, and as he had been intending on making himself useful anyway, Will nods his agreement.

Having been thoroughly validated in his assumptions, Jack turns back to business, entirely professional, to address Margot, who has been standing at Hannibal’s side, largely forgotten and almost certainly unamused by the fact, for the entirety of this exchange. 

“I understand that your brother is the missing person?” he asks her although he knows the answer, re-establishing the basis for his coming, “I assure you, miss, we will do everything in our power to return him to you. Might we retreat to a compartment so that you can explain to me all the particulars?”

“Of course,” Margot nods, voice wavering as if upon the edge of tears, gesturing a short way down the hall to the place from which she and Will had recently appeared, “Please, my compartment is just this way.”

“May I accompany her?” Hannibal asks as Margot and Jack take a step in the indicated direction, “Dear Margot has been through a great deal, including a recent head injury, and I would wish to be there to support her. I’m concerned about her going through the stress of an interview in her already weakened state . . .”

Will internally scoffs, seriously doubting that the small strain of speaking with a policeman could really do so much damage to Margot, a woman who seems possessed of a particular quiet strength . . . but perhaps it is kind of Hannibal to be so concerned as to offer his personal support, even if she does not need it.

Another part of him remarks that a frail woman is likely what Jack anticipates seeing in this particular circumstance, as would most men of authority in the current day and age. It would likely benefit Margot to appear as the woman Jack expects to see, in order to avoid unnecessary questions being placed upon herself and thus to streamline the investigation through the removal of distractions - a strategy that is also likely to be useful in other, more quotidien situations, such as asking for directions or disputing the fine on a late library book return.

Being other than the person your audience is expecting can generate a measure of, generally subconscious, but no less troublesome ill-will, an ill-will that it is inconvenient to be on the receiving end of in any case, but particularly when it is coming from a police detective, with all the weight and power of his position in play.

Hannibal, from what little Will knows of him so far, is the type to recognize this and to move to aid her in creating this weaker but more favorable impression of herself.

It would seem to work as Jack nods his agreement, but while Jack’s and Margot’s and Hannibal’s positions in this are all now established, Will has been asked to “assist” but not invited to join them in this interrogation. Though, strictly speaking, neither is he eager to do so, as sitting in and unintentionally analyzing every question and every response sounds frankly exhausting. Most of the conversation will be Margot relating what Will already knows anyway, so what point is there really in his attendance?

“Hannibal?” he calls out softly for the man, who then slows to a halt, letting Margot and Jack go ahead into the compartment without him.

“Yes?”

“I suspect that I’m not really necessary for this,” Will tells him, “so I thought I might instead take a look about the train, to see if I can spot anything else amiss that might prove useful.”

“That sounds like a most sensible idea,” Hannibal approves, “although I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind you being present as well.”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t,” Will smiles, sighing, “but in all honesty, I’m not keen on being in a small, confined space with him right now . . . when we parted last, it was amid unfortunate circumstances, and I think I need a little bit of time to process his sudden reappearance, to tell the truth. I might as well make myself useful while I’m doing that processing.”

“I see,” Hannibal says, although a slight twitching at the corners of his eyes tells Will that the man doesn’t see as much as he’d like to, and that the blind spot in the shape of Will and Jack’s mutual past irks him somewhat, “In that case, do exercise caution, We don’t know what has happened, after all, and it’s best we all be on our guard until the facts are established.”

“I will,” Will assures him, appreciative of the concern for his person from his new acquaintance and/or friend, “I should be back before the hour. Please tell Jack what I’m up to, although I’d take it as a kindness if you’d leave out the part about me being disturbed by his being here . . .”

“Of course,” Hannibal reassures him, before chuckling, “Who’d have thought when we sat down in the same compartment earlier that we would be in this situation now?”

“Who indeed,” Will agrees with a smile, “I’ll be off then.”

“And I’ll do my best to prevent Jack from being untactful with our dear Margot,” Hannibal says, the both of them turning away from each other to see to their individual missions.

Left alone in the hallway, with Jack, Hannibal, and Margot retreated to the compartment and the other passengers who’d been milling about curiously having grown bored by the lack of shouting and spectacle to retreat to their own seats, Will takes a deep breath, a sense of relief coming to him in the solitude. Lord knows he’s been in far more stressful situations in his time, but the drama of the day has left him far from unaffected, particularly since he’s been largely solitary in lifestyle for quite some time. 

The abrupt and drastic change has been exhausting, much as abrupt, drastic changes tend to be. 

He picks a direction, largely on impulse, and begins to head in the direction of the rear of the train, taking good, long looks at the floor, ceiling, and walls, looking for anything that might strike him as peculiar, and quickly peeking into the assorted compartments as he passes. Most of the compartments were full or at least occupied by one or two people, so Will does his best to be as unobtrusive as possible in his investigation, apologizing to those he disturbs.

After some minutes, he comes upon a compartment that’s empty, and as he looks it over and makes to move on, movement catches his eye through the window, looking out over the cast plain as a bird swoops down and comes to rest upon the branch of a weathered, weary tree, standing out crookedly from the landscape. The sight is oddly captivating, though Will knows not why exactly. The image seeming to encapsulate a particular feeling of loneliness, a lonesome sense, in that way that “lonesomeness” describes a loneliness of a sacred nature, a profound connection with the natural world that can only truly be felt in the absence of other people . . . 

He lets himself drift a moment in the calm of it. The bird looks over the landscape, where it must see the train, and see with its keen vision where Will stands at the window, looking out. It sees, but it understands not, having not the slightest notion of the troubles that are taking place, not the fear, not the pain; it lacks even the very concept of a train, and the machine and the people within it hold for the creature no concern. Such a freedom it has, possessed of that wild ignorance, seeing and not understanding . . . what must it be like to see and not understand? For the lack of understanding be of such an extent that it cannot even spark anxiety?

Will finds himself for a moment envious, wishing that he too could live in that sort of blissful ignorance, but alas that sort of peace is not within his capacity, nor is he sure he would remain happy should he actually attain it . . .

He sighs, looking away from the window and ducking out of the compartment and back into the hall and . . . there’s someone here, he knows it at once, can feel it in the rise of the hairs on the back of his neck, in the prickling sensation that rolls quickly down his spine. He turns his head slowly to look, and he sees him.

The person who stands there in the hallway, a couple yards from him, is not especially remarkable in looks. Hazel eyes, brown hair, fair features, though not especially so. His nose goes up just a touch at the tip, giving him an almost impish impression and lending to him the look of a naturally good-natured person, but the impression ends there, at the tip of his nose. He’s pale, too pale, his pallor sickly and face tired. 

He wears a uniform, of the sort Will used to wear, but upon his jacket, there is a button missing . . .

He’s not really there, Will knows he isn’t, despite his every sense insisting to him that this spectre standing before him is flesh and bone, is solid . . . He’s not there. He just isn’t. His eyes, his face, his hands with their long, thin fingers, his bony wrists peeking out from under the end of his sleeves, the empty space upon his uniform where a button ought to be . . . all of him is simply impossible. He’s impossible, he can’t be there, and he isn’t.

Will knows, KNOWS, that the young man is not there . . . but that doesn’t help, and blinking doesn’t make him go away.

***

The most heartbreaking person that Will had ever met had been a boy named Timothy.

Will had been a bit too old at the time of his deployment to buy into tales of glory, stories told to entice the innocent into coming voluntarily to the slaughter, but Timothy hadn’t. Hardly more than a child, eighteen or nineteen, perhaps twenty at the high end, Timothy had fairly buzzed with excitement as he’d boarded the boat alongside Will and Jeremy, hauling a canvas sack of of everything that he would ever own. He’d had dreams of medals, of commendations, of grand war stories that he could one day tell to his grandchildren, children who would be proud of him much as he had been of his own grandfather. He’d also wanted to learn to play piano, and to speak French, and to drive a car . . .

But in the grip of the fever that came for him, under the crushing weight of the influenza, as Will, only recently healed himself, lay a cold compress upon his burning forehead, Timothy had called out only for his mother.

They never should have let him go to battle, sickly as he was, pale and thin as bleached cotton sheets, out of danger but only just . . . but they had, they’d thrown him into hell, and there’s no way they couldn't have known what the result would be . . . But they’d done it all the same, propping him up and shoving him into a uniform, thrusting a rifle and a service revolver into his hands, and there was no protecting a boy from the field of battle, from the soul-destroying thunder of bombardments. The shaking of it turned the already wet ground to a liquid, greedy to swallow up any and all goodness there was to be found in such a place, to pull it down and drown it.

When the shell landed that terrible day, Will had felt it like a blow to the heart, though all that caught him was some shrapnel, leaving shallow wounds. He’d known greater physical hurt than that, but somehow he’d known then, somehow he’d felt Timothy’s sudden absence, his abrupt disappearance from the world. He’d hoped to be wrong, and he’d gone looking for Timothy in the last place he’d seen him . . . where he had indeed found him . . . 

He’d seen Timothy’s hand reaching up out of deep mud, as if struggling for the surface, and he’d run to it, pulling his boots free of the muddy suction with a gargantuan effort to race over to Timothy’s hand, grasping it in his own and pulling hard, desperately, trying to bring the boy back . . . but as he pulled it from the thick muck of the battlefield, he'd fallen backwards to land on his back with a splash, as the hand had come easily free . . . with no Timothy attached to it. Just a hand and part of a forearm, ending in splintered bone and ragged flesh. 

Sound seemed to fade as he stood there, the booming of shells fading into the gentle popping of green wood upon a hot fire, as though Will had found himself encased in a jar of glass, able to see everything around him, and yet somehow removed from it. He simply stood, immune to all fright, to the loud sounds and flashes of light, immune to everything other than a profound, all-consuming horror, something cold and sickly, spreading under his skin and through the very heart of him like tendrils of frost creeping across a winter window pane. And all the while he just stood there, holding Timothy’s hand. In the next hour or so, ignorant or perhaps simply uncaring of his orders, but without an immediate superior to make the distinction, Will had searched around the explosion site, looking for the rest of Timothy.

His body, most of it, Will found on the other side of the indentation in the earth, slumped down against the slope as though simply exhausted and fallen asleep, but his open eyes betrayed the awful truth of it. Eyes wide but empty, dead, his expression one of surprise, and the only good thing about it that Will could think of was that it had happened too fast for Timothy to feel the pain, too fast for anything but a split second of surprise. It was a small mercy, pathetically inadequate, but at least, Will supposed, it was something. 

Knee-deep in a grave miles across, Will grasped for the one small mercy he could think of, as all greater mercies were cast from the land to dissipate into nothing. 

He’d reached out to wipe some of the mud and gore from Timothy’s face, but it hadn’t done much good, dirty as Will’s own hands were, grime embedded so deeply into the grooves of his fingers that no amount of water would wash it away, that only time and wear could free him of, horror turned to soil and embedded in his skin. He couldn't clean his face, so he’d done then the only thing he could, laying Timothy’s missing arm back down beside him and closing Timothy’s eyes for him, two blackened fingerprints marking his eyelids, spelling out an apology, a grief, and a wish . . . 

At least the poor boy would never have to look upon a hellish landscape of mud and barbed wire again. 

This way, he could almost pass for sleeping.

Another explosion, not far off, lit up the dreadful scene in stark white light, and in that moment, something glimmered on Timothy’s now concave chest: a button polished bright and miraculously not dulled by grime or blood even now. One small thing left unsullied . . .

Will isn’t sure exactly why he took out his pocket knife and cut off the button, or why he slipped the thing into his pocket and carried it around with him for the rest of the war. Maybe the intention had once been to put it in an envelope and send it back to Timothy’s family, but he never did get around to it- the button is still in a drawer in his rented digs in Melbourne, kept safe.

Timothy was reported killed in action and his family was notified, that Will can be sure of, but he’d had no way to know if the family had his body repatriated, expensive as such a thing is. As far as Will knows, Timothy is still lying there, decomposing in a battlefield that should by now be regrowing grass, still in his uniform, still missing a button . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So ... any thoughts?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margot's brother is found ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those of you who have commented on this fic; it means a lot to me to hear that you continue to enjoy it :)

The initial moment of shock and terror, in which the whistling of incoming shells echoes in the halls of his mind, passes, the horror leaving behind it a sort of hollow, cold confusion as Timothy continues to stand in the passageway, even as the initial rush of adrenaline fades into a sickly shakiness. 

Ghosts ought to appear behind you in a mirror, only to disappear when you turn about in frightened impulse, or to flicker into existence beneath a streetlamp in the nocturnal mists of an autumn night and dissipate again with the blink of an eye. Successful hauntings are built upon the curled, shivering spine of suspense, but whatever else may be happening here, it isn’t that kind of suspenseful fear that Will feels as Timothy continues to stand there, not dissipating into shadow or winking out of existence the way that a ghost ought to do. 

Timothy being there isn’t what’s frightening. It’s what his presence might mean . . . Not the what, but the why of it.

The ghost turns then, away from Will, and begins to walk down the corridor, and though Will cannot fathom why a person with any semblance of sense might do so, he’s compelled to follow on Timothy’s heels, ghosting his own way down the passage. He steps on quiet feet, as though a loud sound might break this spell of sorts that’s fallen over the train, during which all other noise has faded, and the people who’d been in the various compartments appear to have vanished, as though they were the ghosts, not Timothy.

Timothy moves with purpose; he knows where he is going, and Will follows with a thoughtless sort of trust that might better be described as hope, and a foolish one at that. He hopes that the ghost is like Timothy was in life, a harmless, generally kind boy, but the cold tendrils spreading through the core of him, sickly chill, would suggest otherwise.

It’s the feeling of being alone in a winter wood, surrounded by a monotone landscape, cruelly cold, when the realization creeps up upon you that the path which you are following is not the one you were following when you began, and not only do you not know the way back, but you have no idea when it was that you even strayed. Will follows his own friend’s ghost, knowing that he’s strayed from the safe path upon which he’d been travelling, but just when the spell fell and the path twisted away, he couldn’t say. Was it the moment he saw Timothy standing there, or was that simply the moment he noticed the change, the moment he realized he was lost?

They leave the passenger carriages behind, compartments with seats giving way to storage compartments, in front of one of which Timothy stops, deathly still once again. Will thinks for a moment that it’s the storage compartment that has attracted his interest, coming closer out of curiosity, but then Timothy looks up, glassy hazel eyes coming to focus on a panel in the ceiling, presumably intended for railroad staff to access some important functional thing or another. 

He reaches up a pale hand with slow surety, wedging his fingertips into the slight gap, widening it and pushing the panel out of place. There’s a moment of nothing while the panel comes loose, then the piece falls away from the rest of the ceiling, the abrupt motion of the fall followed immediately by the limp arm that falls with it through the hole, dangling there above Will’s and Timothy’s heads lifelessly. Will starts, gasping, but Timothy just calmly turns to look at him with an expression of … expectation?

What is it that he’s expecting?

It’s then that a sound catches Will’s ear, although it’s faint, muffled, almost as though he’s listening to it from underwater.

“Will!” a voice calls to him, urgent and laden with concern, “Will!”

Will turns towards the sound, and there’s Hannibal, striding quickly up to him with an air of worry, brow furrowed, reaching an arm out to take Will’s elbow, as though worried that he might collapse at any moment. 

“Will, are you alright?” he asks, looking Will over as if checking for any mysterious injury, and it amazes Will, in an odd, hazy sort of way, that Hannibal is looking Will over, but has entirely failed thus far to notice the arm hanging limply from the ceiling panel, “You said you’d be back within the hour, so when you weren’t I worried for you.”

It’s kind of Hannibal to worry for him, but Will’s a bit too distracted at the moment to thank him for his concern.

“I found …” Will trails off as he turns from Hannibal, pointing a finger up towards the ceiling … which is curiously unblemished, realizing then that not only is the arm gone, the panel closed, but that Timothy too has disappeared, nowhere to be seen, by Will or by any other person.

Hannibal regards him curiously, concernedly, though the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes seem kind, or at the very least fond, and Will’s chest clenches tight. He frowns, reaching up to the crack that distinguishes the panel from the rest of the ceiling and digging in his own fingers, catching the edge and pulling.

The panel falls with a thud, and for a moment Will feels a strange combination of disappointment and relief at the lack of motion, but then his stomach sinks as an arm does indeed flop down through the hole, dangling in space above their heads, where it has absolutely no right to be, and yet right where Will had expected it. Turning back to Hannibal, Will takes in the surprise on the man’s face, startled, though not too startled, unafraid, as though while he might not have anticipated a corpse being found here in the train’s ceiling, he had expected a corpse somewhere on board. 

He’d not been terribly optimistic about the fate of Margot’s brother then …

“Yes,” Hannibal sighs with a grimace, “I do believe you’ve found him.”

***  
Hannibal doesn’t want to leave him alone, peaky as he’s looking, but he does concede that they can’t very well leave the arm of a corpse hanging from the ceiling completely unattended. Will would have little hope of keeping the thing from being seen, should any of the other passengers stumble down this way, but at the very least he could protect it from any interference until the police arrive to interfere in a more official capacity. 

These things considered, Hannibal reluctantly leaves Will to keep watch over the scene while he retrieves Jack and his officers. 

He must be gone for at least a few minutes, but for Will it’s hardly a few seconds before Hannibal returns with the detective inspector in tow, a serious but calm expression on Hannibal’s face, while a serious and altogether less calm expression graces Jack’s visage. He’s upset; having just spoken to Margot and no doubt having given her his best assurances, the discovery of a body has him feeling as though he’s already failed, despite appearances suggesting that Margot’s brother was dead before Jack was even contacted.

Anger is much more comfortable a feeling that that of self-doubt and sorrow, so it’s always been Jack’s go-to. Will remembers well now, as things buried keep clawing their way to the surface of his mind, an instance or two when Jack’s tendency towards anger got the better of him … But then, rage isn’t half-bad as a motivator, and as long as it produces results, a lot of things can be ignored.

Observing as Jack barks orders, demanding the formation of perimeter, or as much as can pass for one in the narrow passageway of a train, roping together some officers to help retrieve the body, reminding them all sharply to wear their gloves, Will realizes that Jack is genuinely perturbed. He bought it, he really believes that Margot adores her brother and that she’ll be absolutely devastated by his loss … Will’s certain that she doesn’t really, and that she won’t, but he’s almost equally certain that she wasn’t the one to kill him. 

Nevermind that she’s simply too small and slight of build to stuff a full-grown man into the ceiling of a moving train, on a very basic level, Will gets the feeling that if she were to murder her brother … this isn’t how she’d do it.

This is far too impersonal, and Will gets the odd feeling that none of this is playing out how it ought to. This man was going to die sometime, but here? Now? It’s not really based on anything, but as the body is hauled down and Will spys the odd angle at which the head lolls at the end of the neck, the feeling intensifies. 

A broken neck is very … efficient. 

It’s not especially easy to do, and while it doesn’t exactly smack of the personal touch, it’s not something you’d do to just anyone whilst wandering about in a murdering mood. It’s not messy, it’s comparatively quiet when opposed to other methods, and in an enclosed space full of people, like this train, a certain measure of quiet is essential if one wishes to avoid immediate detection. Someone thought ahead, but as Will looks at the sorry sight, he thinks perhaps not very far ahead.

Will doubts it was planned far in advance, for this time and place, but whoever did it was remarkably sensible about the whole affair … in which case, there will be very little to be found.

Margot’s brother, Mason, Will recalls overhearing in conversation as the three of them sat waiting for the police to arrive, lies sprawled, like a marionette with its strings cut, upon the floor, such an expression of surprise on his face … And perhaps it’s bad of him, disrespectful of the dead and all that, but it’s a face that triggers within Will an instant sense of dislike. Somehow, even in both surprise and deathly stillness, it’s smarmy, slimy, the face of someone Will wouldn’t wish to have anything to do with. 

Alas, he’s already agreed to help, and while he’ll mercifully never have to deal with the man in person, he’ll still have to learn at least a bit about him … Cruel eyes and pronounced smile lines though … The two features, particularly in combination, don’t bode very well, not according to Will’s practiced eye.

“What do you think, Will?” Jack inquires, making an effort to tamp down his anger, having evidently observed Will lost in thought.

“Did they get him from behind?” he asks in response, “Or from the front?”

“Hm,” Jack squats down, looking the body over from up close, “From the look of things, I’d say the front.”

“Odd. And any signs of a struggle?”

“Nothing especially notable; his suit’s quite crumpled, but no more than you might expect after being stuffed into a storage compartment, and there don’t seem to be any defensive wounds.”

“He knew the man, then,” Hannibal interjects, ever helpful, “Mason wasn’t the sort to let many come so physically close to him. He’d have to know you and have a certain amount of trust pre-established.”

“He have any enemies?”

“Not specifically, not that I’m aware of,” Hannibal replies thoughtfully, “Though I must admit I’m far better acquainted with his sister than I ever was with him. Margot mentioned that he was in business, the owner of Verger meatpacking, but she neglected to mention the fact that he’s had multiple disagreements with trading partners due to his … difficult personality.”

“Neglected to mention?” Jack raises a suspicious eyebrow.

“She lived her whole life with him,” Hannibal shrugs, “To her, he’s no ruthless businessman, just her brother, and from what I understand, Mason didn’t believe that women had a place in business. As such, he kept Margot almost entirely out of the loop.”

“Was the meatpacking his only venture?” Will asks, crouching down as well to get a better look at the deceased.

“As far as I know,” Hannibal replies with another small shrug.

“It won’t be,” Will flatly disagrees, making eye contact with Jack as he speaks, “He will have things on the side, and I doubt they will all be savory.”

“Why do you say so?” Jack questions, sitting back on his heels.

“It’s just a feeling really … But Margot’s his only living close relative, isn’t that so, Doctor?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Yet he insisted on keeping her, his only family and I can only presume the next to inherit, away from all business dealings? That’s extremely near-sighted, and a little much, even for your average misogynist.”

“Could be,” Jack gives his tentative, non-committal agreement.

“The person who got him did so from the front,” Wills sighs, standing again, and stuffing his hands deep into his trouser pockets, “when it surely would’ve been easier to do so from behind. Not only did Mason know them, but they wanted to face the man; they wanted him to know just who it was that killed him.”

To look into his eyes and watch the realization dawn that he wouldn’t be walking away from this one … Such an odd combination of the personal and the impersonal … It piques his interest in a way that he hates, because he doesn’t want to care. He doesn’t want to feel sorry for the loss of a life, and more than that, he doesn’t want to feel guilty for not feeling as sorry as he ought to.

He doesn’t want to borrow a killer’s perspective … Especially when he can’t reliably tell where he ends and the warped being born of his imagination begins. 

But he said he’d help …

“The method of his killing is impersonal, more suited to an assassination than a crime of passion or a fit of rage,” Will elaborates, “Yet the manner of it suggests at least some personal connection. There will be something there, but if the killer is as practiced and level-headed as I’m given to believe, it will be a particularly difficult thing to find.”

“The fact that he died was important,” Hannibal nods, “but the message of it was perhaps more so. The fear was important.”

“And the pain,” Will agrees, “which I strongly suspect we would have seen more of, had the killer not simply taken the opportunity presented to him.”

“It sounds an awful lot like you’re producing more questions than answers here," Jack growls, “Have you or have you not any proper suspects in mind?”

“I think you’ll recall that I’m not psychic, Jack,” Will retorts before his better judgement catches up with him, but he is saved from the more immediate repercussions of his transgression as a wave of dizziness overcomes him, causing him to sway on his feet.

“Will!”

Hannibal is as quick on his feet as Will is unsteady on his own, darting forward without a moment’s hesitation when he sees Will begin to falter, eyes clenched tightly shut and a hand pressed to his temple, as if in pain. He places himself at Will’s side, wrapping a strong arm around the man’s shoulders to keep him upright, sturdy and still as stone next to Will’s quivering form, a sapling under a strong wind.

“You’ll forgive us, Jack, I’m afraid that Will is unwell,” Hannibal makes their excuses, already beginning to steer Will carefully away from the bustling scene, “I’ll return him to our compartment and see to his care there.”

“But-” Jack begins, not getting very far at all before Hannibal interrupts him in the self-assured, no-nonsense tone of a doctor.

“We will see you later, Jack,” he dismisses any and all of the man’s possible objections, whisking Will safely away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, any of you who are keeping up with me on twitter (@artemisgraceart) might be aware that I had a health crisis recently, which I came uncomfortably close to not surviving. I'm safe for now, but the situation isn't entirely resolved, so while the experience will probably do wonders for the more ghastly scenes in my writing, it will also prevent me from writing as much as I'd like. 
> 
> I'm afraid I must continue to beg your patience for the foreseeable future, as infrequent updates and the occasional error born of a difficulty concentrating are likely to continue for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you're thinking :)


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